Basil's Death
by stargaza
Summary: Short one-shot that I wrote for a school project. Basil's murder from his point of view. Slight violence.


**AN: Hey guys! I wrote this for a project at school, and just thought I'd share it with you guys! Happens right after the scene in the library. Enjoy!**

Basil's Death

Basil follows Dorian out of the library, still puzzled at what he was about to witness. He fears that Dorian is mad. After all, the ability to see the state of one's own soul is a god-like power. He glances at Dorian, feeling a hint of shame. What did he mean that it was Basil's handiwork? How could Basil, a completely average painter, be the reason behind a scientific phenomenon? It was preposterous! Basil is snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the windows shaking. The wind must be howling outside.

They eventually reach the top of the stairs, and Dorian slowly turns away from the door to gaze at Basil. "You insist on knowing, Basil?" he whispers. There is something in his voice, the look in his eyes, that makes Basil reconsider. However, he gathers his courage and replies steadily, "Yes." The curiosity was eating at him.

"I am delighted," he breathes, smiling a cruel smile. Why was Dorian being so secretive? Before Basil could ponder the matter more, Dorian adds, "You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything about me. You have more to do with my life than you think." What was that supposed to mean? Was Dorian blaming him for the nasty rumors that had been flitting about? Was his trust in Basil really that nonexistent? Before Basil could confront him, Dorian turns the knob and enters the small room. Basil follows, gazing at the dusty, vintage furniture that inhabits the room. "Shut the door behind you," Dorian commands in a low voice. He obeys reluctantly, feeling a bit paranoid to be in the room with the maddened Dorian. Basil's eyes quickly flickered over his surroundings, although he did not give it much thought other than that it was very dirty and unkept. Dorian, still facing the window, speaks harshly, "So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that curtain back, and you will see mine."

Basil now notices the tapestry leaning against the wall with a covering of fine cloth draped over it. As insane as it sounds, Basil was frightened at what might lay behind the silk. "You are mad, Dorian," he mutters, trying to reassure himself more than his friend, "or playing the part." The smaller man chuckles softly, answering, "You won't? Then I must do it myself." He approaches the painting and with hands shaking from excitement rather than fear, rips the curtain away from the painting.

A gasp escaped Basil's mouth, a shaking hand pressing to his lips. Basil could only stare at the monstrosity before him. It was a painting with disgusting features: twisted hands, lined face, and a nearly bald head. Who would paint the horrors of old age? Once he got past the initial shock of the tapestry, he closely examined the face. Through the gray hair he saw a glimmer of rich gold. Through the chapped lips a smidge of rose red. Through the tired eyes a flicker of pure blue. It was Dorian.

Again, who created this atrocity? Sure, the brush patterns may have resembled his own, and the frame looked to be of his making, but it was impossible. The picture he had painted all those years ago had been a work of beauty, Basil's finest painting. This could not be the same object. Basil grasped the candle and approached the painting, studying it closely. He traced his own signature in the corner of the painting.

Basil was in denial. There was no way that he could have painted that, yet he could feel that it was his work. What sorcery was this? Why had it changed, and for what purpose? He swiveled back to look at the shaky Dorian. Basil ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Dorian looked completely at ease, leaning against the mantel. However, Basil could see that Dorian was terrified. His eyes reflected the sort of fascination and curiosity that Basil had come to adore, yet it intermingled with a hopelessness and depression that seemed to linger on this whole situation. He sniffed at a flower, effectively ignoring Basil's horrified looks.

"What does this mean?" Basil questioned, using all of his self-control not to flee the room and forget the whole ordeal. "Years ago, when I was a boy," Dorian crushed the flower in his hand unceremoniously, "you met me, you flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks." Basil did not know whether or not to be proud or ashamed. "One day, you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment, that, even now, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you could call it a prayer…" Basil could not believe the fiction that was leaving Dorian's lips. "I remember it!" he interrupted. "Oh, how well I remember it! No! The thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." Basil said these words with determination, but he could feel in his heart that he was making excuses. He was clearly witnessing witchcraft.

"Ah, what is impossible?" whispered Dorian as he sauntered over to the window. "You told me you had destroyed it," Basil confronted the man leaning his forehead against the glass.

"I was wrong. It has destroyed me."

"I don't believe it is my picture."

"Can't you see your ideal in it?" Dorian spit out accusingly at the painter.

"My ideal, as you call it…"

"As you called it."

"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr."

"It is the face of my soul."

Basil twisted his hands nervously. Dorian was obviously sick, and unless he convinced the man otherwise, something terrible could happen.

"Christ! What a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil."

"Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil," Dorian exclaimed, gesturing wildly. Basil glanced once more at the portrait. If all of this was real, what had Dorian done? "My God, if it is true, and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" Basil felt as if he had crossed a line, but he didn't care. He was already terrified and confused, he wasn't thinking of the consequences of his actions. He again drew near to the portrait, searching for any signs of forgery. He could see that nothing on the surface of the painting had been touched. The corruption came from inside, Dorian was really telling the truth. His shaking hands allowed the candle to fall to the floor.

Basil heaved himself into his chair, placing his head in between his sweaty hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson!" he cried. "What an awful lesson!" Basil earned no reply, but he could hear Dorian quietly weeping near the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," Basil whispered. "What is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities,'" Basil quoted. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Basil bowed his head in silent prayer, begging for forgiveness not only on himself, but also on the boy standing across the room.

Dorian faced him, sniffling. "It is too late, Basil," he stuttered. "It is never too late, Dorian," consoled Basil. "Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow?'"

"Those words mean nothing to me now." Basil was appalled. "Hush! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us!" Again, Basil was not paying attention to his words. He was just praying that God would forgive him, only him this time. Dorian could not be saved. Basil felt selfish, and he was, but it was a known fact. You could tell by looking at the picture. However, Basil's selfishness clouded his choice of words and how they would affect Dorian. He barely noticed when Dorian passed by him. He only realized Dorian had moved when he felt the cool, silver blade enter his neck.

The pain was outstanding, and he could feel his own blood run down his neck. He flailed frantically, trying to push his attacker off of him. He glanced upwards. Dorian, his friend, was now his murderer. Dorian withdrew the blade and slammed it in twice more, each time a little harsher than the first. The darkness crept in the edge of Basil's vision, threatening to take over. Basil let it, knowing it would ease the pain not only in his neck, but in his heart. As the blackness cloaked his eyes, his last thoughts were, _I'm so sorry Dorian, so sorry…_


End file.
